Stop the World
by castiello
Summary: Dean has a massive panic attack. Or two, for good measure. Set during Season Three, between "Fresh Blood" and "A Very Supernatural Christmas."


**Stop the World  
**by castiello

A _Far Side_ calendar. Of all the things to push him over the edge, Dean never would've guessed it would be that.

And yet, when the grizzled old professor pulled out the thick pad and plopped it onto his desk, he might as well have flung open the gates of Hell and dangled Dean right over the Pit. The old man's calloused thumb flipped through the pages in a purring white blur, searching for the date in question. All Dean saw were lost days, slipping away toward oblivion.

Without warning, the cluttered office began to shrink around him. His heart, once a silent worker in the factory of his body, was now protesting loud and fast, squeezing to the dizzying rhythm of "heartattack, heartattack."

Dean reached up to loosen his tie. He wasn't wearing one.

The room was half its normal size, and still closing in.

It was all he could do to keep a somewhat neutral expression on his face, and hope fervently that neither Sam nor the professor would notice that the third member of their party was dying right in front of them.

Then, just when Dean was thinking the situation really couldn't get much worse, the old man chuckled and said, "I've certainly been neglecting this for a while, haven't I?"

And the professor proceeded to tear off a great chunk of pages, casually dropping them into the empty wastebasket, where they landed with a metallic "thunk."

Dean's eyes, already wide, actually bulged. He seized the armrests of his chair, clutching against the sudden sea of black that washed around the edges of his vision.

He was _not_ going to pass out in some dude's office…

The sea swelled higher, threatening to block out his eyesight entirely.

He was _so_ going to pass out in some dude's office.

Dean stood abruptly, a mumbled excuse falling from his half-numb lips – "Sorry, Nature calls" – and staggered from the room.

At some point on the way out, he was sure he knocked something over – his chair, probably – but there was no time to fix it. There was no time, period.

There was no air.

The red "EXIT" sign glowed, small and weak as a dying ember, at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Dean stumbled toward the fading beacon, bumping repeatedly against walls and unknown objects until he finally crashed through a doorway and out into cold air and blinding sunlight.

Somehow, he managed to locate a bench before his legs gave out. Dean collapsed onto it gratefully, his chest heaving like he'd just run ten miles with a very pissed-off Rakshasa on his heels.

Seconds passed before his vision had cleared enough to register where he was sitting: next to the university's supposedly famous Koi pond, which Sam had been rambling about in the car on the way over.

Sam…

Dean's whole body jerked at the sound of a door bursting open several yards behind him.

"Dean!"

He sat up quickly, trying to banish the last vestiges of dizziness.

Sam's enormous strides carried him to the bench in a matter of seconds, and he hunkered down in front of his brother, the younger man's face a study in concern.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

Not quite trusting himself to speak just yet, Dean simply shook his head.

_Nothing. Nothing's wrong._

Sam leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at his older brother. Dean looked away, buying time to smooth the terror off his face.

"What the hell happened to you back there?" Sam's voice was pitched higher than usual, confusion and alarm bringing him dangerously close to a girly falsetto. "Dean?"

"Nothing," Dean managed. The word came out a little shaky, so he cleared his throat and tried again. "Nothing. Just…needed some air."

This explanation did nothing to dissipate the anxiety pinching Sam's eyebrows together. If anything, he now looked highly skeptical and a little weirded-out on top of everything else. "In the middle of an interview…?"

Dean shifted a little under his brother's narrow-eyed scrutiny. "Uh, yeah. We just…We've been cooped up too much lately, you know? The skeevy motel room and the library and the friggin' Hall of Records…Guess I just got a little stir-crazy."

Sam frowned but said nothing, still watching his older brother with careful eyes.

Dean attempted a lop-sided smile. "Hey, you know how I get – we go more than a week without shootin' or burnin' something, I start climbing the walls…"

Sam didn't return the smile. His head was tilted to one side, brow furrowed in clear disbelief.

Little brother was too smart for his own good. Dean could practically see all the little wheels and cogs turning as Sam internally debated whether or not to probe the issue.

_Please don't, Sammy. I can't do this right now…_

A moment later Sam's expression cleared, the decision made. "But…you're feeling better now?" he asked, not taking his eyes off Dean's face.

Dean sagged a little in relief. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Fresh air – it does a body good."

"You want me to go grab you some water or something?"

"Nah, dude. I'm good."

Sam was still crouched down in front of the bench, looking up at his brother with those huge, stricken, Labrador eyes. Dean was afraid that if the scene dragged out much longer, either Sam would decide to start digging after all, or Dean himself would lose it and end up spilling his guts out in a giant gush of undeniable chick-flickiness.

Both options sucked.

Dean slapped his palms to his thighs and made to stand up. "Come on, man, we better get back in there – "

Sam reacted instantly, unfolding his giant frame into the oak tree that he was, and holding out both hands to keep Dean seated. "No, no – it's okay. You, uh, you just stay here and catch your breath. I can finish up with McMillan."

Dean looked up at his brother suspiciously. Two different instincts tugged inside Dean's chest, his pride's need to save face warring with his legs' need to remain limp and noodle-like. Pride was winning out, as usual – until Sam fixed him with that pleading Golden Retriever look again.

"Just humor me, okay?" Sam asked, in a voice that wavered a tiny bit on the last word.

Dean sighed and slumped back against the bench. "Yeah, all right. Whatever. Go back and talk to professor-dude before he starts to think we ditched him for some co-eds in short-shorts."

Sam's mouth didn't even twitch at the joke. "I'll be right back. Just…take it easy."

"Yeah, yeah…" Dean waved him off.

Sam stood watching him for another beat before turning to head back to the building. Dean didn't miss any one of the six furtive, over-the-shoulder glances his brother threw at him on the short walk to the entrance.

"Friggin' girl," Dean grumbled, but without any real spunk or conviction.

He figured he must look like a fresh, steamy pile of dog crap if Sam didn't even trust him to stand up. The pond gurgled over on Dean's right, and he scooched along the bench toward it. Bending forward, Dean tried to catch a glimpse of his own reflection in the water's surface.

He expected to see two wide, green eyes staring back at him out of a pale face. Instead, all he saw was a blurry, quivering blob that was a vague mix between the blue color of his torn jeans and the deep black-brown of his beloved leather jacket.

All around the blob were flecks and splotches of other shades – ripples and reflections of leaves, both green and brown, and the washed-out blue of the sky above. He couldn't see his own face at all. Just the colors, all messed up and blended, in the spot where it was supposed to be.

Almost like he was already gone…

Dean sat there with his legs splayed out and stared at the browns and the blues and the greens, shifting and swirling and wrapping around one another just like the feelings inside him:

Relief…Shame…Fragility…Exhaustion…A sudden, aching sense of grief that went deeper than bone…

He was sinking in that pool. Slowly but surely, deeper and deeper, day after day – and he couldn't even struggle or splash or call out for help. He had to just let himself drown…

Dean couldn't see the fish lurking under the water, not yet. He would see them soon enough. He would see every nasty, twisted thing hiding beneath the surface soon enough.

Too soon…

The colors swirled and Dean stared. Mesmerized. Transfixed. Terrified…

Even the loud burst of very youthful, very female giggles that bounced from a nearby courtyard could not draw his eyes from the water. The cheerful chorus blended with other sounds: the soft gurgle of water feeding into the pond, the cries of seagulls over a distant parking lot, the gentle whisper of wind through leaves.

Peaceful, innocent sounds, molded like tinfoil by Dean's dark imagination, until the gulls were shrieking, "Hell, Hell, Hell!" and the wind was whispering, "Dyyyyyying…Dyyyying…" and the gurgle was of his own blood, boiling in a sea of fire hotter than the one that had devoured Mom.

Dean swallowed.

On the outside, he was motionless, but for that tiny bob in his throat. On the inside, he was screaming. Thrashing in the stupid pond water, tearing branches off the trees, running at the gulls, roaring, "Shut up, you bastards! It is NOT over yet! I still have time, so shut the fuck u – "

Behind him, a door banged open, shattering Dean's slightly deranged mental tirade. The footsteps that approached were loud and fast. Strides too long, and slightly awkward, and familiar in a way that made Dean's chest ache with bitter-sweetness.

He sat back and let his eyelids half-droop. Lazily, Dean rolled his head sideways to greet Sam.

The older brother's expression was a perfectly-honed blend of irritation and sleepiness. He stifled a yawn, stretched his arms along the back of the bench, and looked up at Sam with hazy green eyes that very clearly said, "Thanks so much for leaving me out here, Sammy – way to bore me outta my flippin' skull…"

Out loud, Dean muttered, "_Finally_. Dude, what took you so long?"

Sam plunked down on the bench next to him, looking suitably apologetic. "Sorry, I kept trying to wrap it up, but the guy had done some research on apparition sightings himself, and he wanted to tell me about it…"

Dean scowled. "'Research on apparition sightings?' We see ghosts practically every other day!"

"But _he_ doesn't know that. He thinks we're – "

"Grad students," Dean finished for him, "who don't have a clue about any of this shit…"

"Exactly." Sam leaned back in his seat and stretched out his long legs. "So, I humored the guy. Besides, there was a chance that he might've come up with something relevant to the case…"

Dean quirked an eyebrow. "Did he?"

"Uh…no. But hey, at least you had time for a catnap." Sam reached over and gave his older brother's arm a playful slap.

Dean scowled again. "Only chicks, geezers, and _you_ take catnaps," he declared. "If I sleep like any kind of animal, it's a dog, because everyone knows they rule."

"They also drool," Sam noted cheerfully. "And so do you, by the way."

"Do not. You're the one who always has to flip his pillow over before we leave the motel. Friggin' _lake_ of slobber…and you snore, too."

Sam was chuckling good-naturedly at the teasing, but his eyes were still just a little too careful, watching Dean.

Dean sighed and let his own gaze fall to the small notepad balanced on Sam's thigh. "So, I'm guessing the professor's dates match up?"

Sam nodded. "Yup." He sat forward and plucked the pad off his lap to read it. "May second and August twenty-eighth."

Dean sat up, too, and scrubbed a hand over his stubble. "So…a werewolf ghost?"

"Looks like."

Dean shot his brother a sideways glance. "Pretty weird. Even for us."

"Tell me about it," Sam agreed. "Even Bobby's scratching his head on this one. But still, it _does _add up – the lunar cycle, the spirit sightings, the walking through walls – "

"Not to mention the ripping people to shreds and eating their hearts," Dean added sourly.

"That, too. Plus there was that one record Bobby found…"

"_Possible_ record," Dean corrected. "Of a _possible_ werewolf that was _possibly_ killed in this area over seventy years ago, by a hunter who died over twenty years ago, so we can't exactly _ask_ him what he did with the friggin' corpse. It's not a whole lot to go on…"

"And, even if we _do_ find the body, there's still no guarantee that a classic salt-and-burn will stop the thing," Sam pointed out.

Dean scuffed his boot on the ground, sending a tiny spray of loose concrete raining down into the Koi pond. "Man, this sucks out loud…"

"Pretty much sums it up, yeah…"

They both looked at the water for a moment, each silent and thoughtful.

Then Dean remembered – "Hey, we still have to talk to that one witness, right? Before we get out our shovels and start digging up the town? Amy What's-Her-Name. She might've seen something that could help us narrow it down."

"Roberts," Sam read off his pad. "Amy Roberts, who supposedly saw the spirit the night the first victim was murdered. Oh, and the professor gave me a name, too – another possible witness."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Who?"

"Student. He was in McMillan's office, helping grade papers, on the night of the second killing. The kid had just left the office when McMillan spotted the apparition through a window, so the kid would've been outside, at the right time – "

"And he mighta seen somethin'."

Sam gave a little shrug. "Could be."

Dean's shoulders slumped. "So, two more interviews…"

"Yeah. I thought I'd take the kid, since he lives right on campus. You can have the hot chick – " Sam smiled and gave Dean a small nudge on the shoulder " – And then we could meet up at that burger place you saw on the way into town."

Dean frowned speculatively at his own kneecaps for a moment, then glanced sourly over at Sam. "How do you even know she's hot? She could be a total butter-face…"

Sam blinked. "A _butter_ face…?"

"Great body, but her _face_…Yech."

Sam gave one of his patented scoff/eye-roll combos. "I think it's a safe bet she's prettier than…" He flipped forward a few pages, eyes scanning "…'Edwin Fundt.'" Sam wrinkled his nose, as if trying to picture an infant so hideous that its parents had decided to call it "Edwin."

Dean chuckled. "Yeah, you got a point, there. All right, I'll take the chick, you take the dude, and we meet back for burgers."

"Unless," Sam said quickly, "you, um, you know, want to do the interviews together or-or something…"

Dean glanced over at him in surprise. All of a sudden, Sam was a knot of shifting limbs and furtive, sideways looks.

_Worried_, Dean realized. _Afraid I'm gonna freak out again when he's not with me…_

Part of Dean wanted to roll his eyes at Sam's transparency. The rest of him wanted to shrivel up in shame at having given his brother a reason to be concerned in the first place. But he was fine, now. Drool jokes, werewolf ghosts, hot chick debates – "Winchester Normal" was back in full swing. Dean was good.

Time to make sure Sam knew it, too.

"Sam, we gotta get a move on this thing. If we don't find that body, or figure out _something_, then tomorrow night – "

" – Another innocent person'll die," Sam finished dully.

"Exactly. We can cover more ground if we split up. And besides, I'm not sharing my hot chick with you."

Now it was Dean's turn to give a playful shoulder-nudge, and Sam's turn to grumble, "You don't even know she's hot…" as he tore Amy's information page out of the notepad and fished the Yahoo map he'd printed earlier out of his jacket pocket.

He handed both items to Dean, who gave each a quick glance before pocketing them himself. Then, as if on cue, both boys rose to their feet in perfect tandem. Dean's legs didn't wobble or buckle, which he took to be a good sign.

The brothers ambled side-by-side along the walkway until it split into two. There, Dean angled right, heading back for the parking lot and his baby, and Sam kept going straight.

The older brother swaggered along with nearly every ounce of his usual haughty confidence, steadfastly ignoring the gulls circling overhead. When he got to the end of the Anthropology Building, just before he rounded the corner, Dean turned around and called out, "Yo, Sammy!"

Sam turned around, too. "Yeah?"

"If you get to the burger place before me, I want a double with bacon – and don't forget the extra onions!"

Sam was shaking his head, eyes fixed on the heavens.

Dean grinned hugely at him, then disappeared behind the building.

XxXxX

Amy Roberts lived in a nice house, in a nice neighborhood. Small white butterflies fluttered by the Impala in manic circles as Dean pulled up in front of a freshly-mowed, so-green-it-was-almost-blue lawn. Yellow wooden boxes overflowed with neon pink and purple flowers beneath the gleaming windows that lined the first floor of the two-story brick home.

As Dean creaked open the driver's side door, he could hear children laughing and screeching and running around down the street. It was the kind of place he would've disparaged, once upon a time, making jokes about blowing his brains out at the unbearable _normalcy_ of it all.

But these days…

These days, places like this made his chest feel thick and funny. They twisted his heart into a curious yin-yang of pain and fond nostalgia that made it a little hard to breathe. The honey-sweet scent of the flowers and the just-right smoky whiff of barbeque from a few houses down did nothing to help.

Dean was forced to physically swallow back the thoughts rising inside of him as he ambled up the neat, daisy-lined sidewalk toward the house:

_Mom – Cassie – Carmen – Lisa – MOM…_

No, no, no, no, and NO.

Any further down that road, and he would end up a quivering pile of girl-mush for the second time in one day. Dean swallowed again as he stepped up onto the porch. He stood there for a moment, doing a quick self-inventory:

All weepy, girly, sentimental doors tightly shut and padlocked?

_Check._

Case of Casper the Not-So-Friendly Werewolf front and center?

_Check._

Dean reached up to rap his knuckles firmly on the wooden door. His silver ring flashed bright gold in the afternoon sunlight, making a tiny flare dance across the dark wood. A very muffled cry of "Just a second!" rang out from somewhere inside the house.

"A second" turned into ten, then fifteen, then thirty. Dean waited on the porch, shifting from foot to foot, his eyes never straying from his watch. Just as the second hand was about to reach its starting place, the door swung suddenly inward with a gentle swoosh of air.

Amy Roberts had bright blue eyes that sparkled despite the charcoal smudges beneath them. Her hair was a long, messy waterfall of sun-bleached gold. She was breathless, puffing air like she'd just come running from somewhere, but her smile was genuine as she tilted the door open wider.

Dean took in the full-body view and made his assessment:

Definitely hot enough for him to hit on – if he'd been in a "hitting on someone" mood. He felt a little pang of regret that he wasn't. More than anything else, though, Amy reminded him of someone – he just couldn't put his finger on who it was.

The girl blinked at him expectantly. "Can I help you?"

"Amy Roberts?" he asked, just to confirm.

She nodded.

Dean dug his very official-looking police ID out of his jacket pocket and flipped the badge open to show her. "I'm Officer Berkowitz, with the Sheriff's Department. I'm just following up on the report you filed several months ago – do you think we could talk for a minute?"

Amy blinked again, this time in surprise. "Oh! Of course – please come in." She swung the door fully inward and gestured Dean over the threshold.

"Thanks. This won't take long." He stepped inside, re-pocketing the badge as he went.

Amy peered around him through the still-open door. "Wow, is that yours?" she asked, nodding at the Impala parked on the street.

Dean looked back over his shoulder. "Yeah, that's my baby."

Amy smiled appreciatively. "Nice."

Dean smiled back. "Thanks."

She led him down a short hallway lined with rows of pictures, and into a room with several plush couches and an enviable hi-def, surround-sound entertainment system.

"Why don't you have a seat?" Amy suggested. "I just have to go take something off the stove, and then I'll be right with you."

"Okay."

Dean eyed the trio of cushy sofas. Each one was a different color – red, yellow, blue. He sank down onto the blue one as Amy hurried from the room. The cushion was very soft. Softer than most of the motel beds, car seats, chairs, and other odds and ends he'd slept on over his lifetime.

While his host was occupied in the kitchen, Dean took the opportunity to peer around her living room, sizing her up like the investigator he'd been trained to be. In this room alone, Amy Roberts had more family photos than most people did in their entire houses. Ten times as many as Sam and Dean had in the small, shabby box recovered from their old home in Lawrence.

Dean's eyes roved over the pristine frames, taking in many versions of Amy – a time when her hair had been short and boyish, a time when her cheeks had been full and a little chubby with youth. Three different boyfriends, over the years, laughing in almost every shot at something she was saying.

An older man and woman, always together, always smiling, their hair a matching silver-grey. A cute younger girl, with brown hair and brown eyes, and a mouthful of gleaming braces. She was in more pictures than any of the others.

Dean gave each of the four vases in the room a brief, deeply disinterested glance, only barely registering the colors in the thick bouquets before returning his gaze to the awesome television, DVD player, and sound system.

He wasn't too big on modern technology, in general, his own preference being for cassette tapes and vinyls and cars that actually had _style_, rather than "OnStar," but even Dean could appreciate the undeniable coolness of being able to watch _Godzilla vs. Mothra_ on _that_ big of a screen.

At this thought, he began to scan the room for her DVD collection, to see if she even _had Godzilla vs. Mothra_ – or anything else decent – but his eyes fell on something else instead: a large white machine, pushed off into the far corner.

Dean had no clue what it was for. He never got the chance to investigate, though, because at that moment Amy returned carrying a tray with two steaming mugs.

"I hope you like herbal tea—whoa!"

She stumbled on the edge of the carpet, just barely managing to stay upright and keep the tray in hand. Dean, who'd instinctively jumped up to help her, quickly took the tea tray and set it on the glass coffee table in the center of the room. Steaming hot brown liquid was still sloshing back and forth in the two mugs like a pair of miniature storms at sea. Some of it had already splashed out to puddle on the tray.

Amy smiled in gratitude. "Thanks – I'm such a klutz these days. It's embarrassing…"

Dean gave his head a polite little shake. "Don't worry about it."

He sat back down on the edge of the blue couch while Amy perched on the adjacent yellow one. She carefully dabbed at one of the mugs with a tissue, then handed the drink over to him.

"Thanks."

Dean took a sip…

…And immediately had to fight down the powerful urge to spit it right back into the mug.

_Ugh – what the hell is this stuff, Rawhead urine?_

His Adam's apple stuttered several times over the act of swallowing.

Amy, who was watching him from across the table, giggled. "Sorry – it's not for everyone…"

"No, it's – it's good," he said quickly. Only his voice sounded high and funny and very _un_-Dean-like.

Amy giggled again.

Dean coughed and cleared his throat. "All right, so, the night of May second. What can you tell me?"

"What do you want to know?"

"Everything. Just start at the beginning and tell me everything you saw."

Amy raised an eyebrow at him over her mug. "Everything? Even the part you won't believe?"

"Who says I won't believe it?"

Amy shrugged. "The other officers didn't."

Dean set down his own mug and gave her a little half-smile. "Yeah, well, my mind is a little more open than some of my, uh, colleagues'."

She looked slightly skeptical. "Well, we'll find out, won't we?" Amy took another swig of the vile tea, and then set her near-empty mug on the table with a soft clink. She looked up at Dean. "So, just start at the beginning?"

He nodded encouragingly. "And try not to leave anything out."

"Okay, so, the second…Well, I was leaving my doctor's office, and it was pretty late, about nine-thirty—"

"Where's your doctor's office?" Dean interrupted, pulling a stubby pencil and a memo pad like Sam's out of his pocket.

"Right on the corner of Westham and Forty-Ninth…" Amy frowned at him. "But wasn't that in the original report?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Everything's in the report, we just have to double-check these things sometimes." Dean finished scribbling the address and offered her his best "disarming" smile. "You know how it goes – too many cases, not enough man power. We just don't want any details to slip through the cracks."

She nodded and settled back into the couch. "Right. Of course. So anyway, I was leaving my doctor's office at around nine-thirty – oh, my doctor's name is Lobo, if you need that. Peter Lobo—"

Dean nodded, writing.

"—And anyway, since it was so late, the parking lot was pretty much empty – just my car and my doctor's. I started walking toward mine, and that's when I saw the man…This guy was standing there by one of the light posts in the middle of the parking lot. Not really doing anything – just standing and looking at me."

"How far away was he?"

"Oh, probably like twenty-five or thirty feet. Pretty far, but he was right under the light, so I could see him clearly…"

Dean's green eyes flicked up to meet Amy's blue ones. This next part was important. "And what did he look like?"

Amy scrunched up her face, obviously trying to conjure every detail to her mind's eye. "He was a white guy. Tall, with long, shaggy dark hair. It looked kinda wet, but it wasn't raining out that night…Um, he had some scars, right across his face, like here-" She brushed a hand over her right cheekbone "—and he was wearing this long coat with this buttoned-up vest underneath. It looked like something from an old black and white movie."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at her. "That's a lotta detail…"

Amy shrugged. "He was creepy. I noticed."

"And did you notice anything else unusual about his appearance? I mean, besides his clothes and his scars?"

"His eyes," she said at once. "They were…weird. Like, really intense and sort of…"

"Animal-ish?" he offered.

"Yes! Exactly. It was like looking into the eyes of a cougar, or a wolf."

"So, what did you do when you saw him?"

Amy's eyes widened. "Well, I wasn't about to go to my car – not by myself. Not with _him_ there."

"Smart move," Dean commented.

"Yeah, as soon as I spotted him, I started to turn back to the building, but that's when…" Amy trailed off uncertainly.

Dean raised his eyebrows and glanced up at her, pencil poised over the memo pad. "What?"

She began to fiddle with the fabric of the couch, pinching it between her fingers. "This is the part you won't believe…"

"Try me."

"He…_flickered_. Like a film on a projector screen or something. I thought it was just the lamp, at first, flickering above him. I thought it _had_ to be that, you know? But it made me do a double-take, and when I looked back, it happened again – this time for _sure_. No way it was the light. That guy flashed in and out, then kind of jerked, and then…"

"Then what?"

"…Then he just disappeared."

"He was totally gone?" Dean pressed, watching her carefully. "You never saw him flicker back in or do anything else?"

"No, he just…wasn't there anymore. Almost like he'd never been in the first place." Amy's eyes had become fixed on one corner of the coffee table during her tale. They rose hesitantly to meet Dean's now that she was done. She smiled feebly. "So…think I'm crazy yet?"

Dean met her gaze full-on. "No, I don't."

Amy laughed. "Well, that makes you the first. Besides my family, I mean."

Dean gave her a small smile as he moved to pocket the notepad and pencil, and then opened his mouth to politely end the interview.

"So," said Amy, before he got the chance to speak, "do they really think this guy had something to do with those murders?"

"It's a possibility," Dean told her with a sigh.

_One that's looking more and more friggin' likely_, he added silently to himself.

"Well, not a guy," she amended suddenly. "Not really. I mean, a regular guy couldn't have done what he did. It had to have been something else. Something…_supernatural_."

Dean said nothing. It wasn't their place to educate civilians. Not when the civilians didn't _need_ to know.

Amy pressed on. "I've been thinking about it, actually, and I was wondering if he might've been a…a ghost." The last word slipped quickly past her lips, as if that might somehow make it less silly or unbelievable-sounding. She chanced another glance at Dean, saw that he wasn't laughing, and plowed on with the explanation for her reasoning:

"I mean, because of the way he just disappeared, and also those old-fashioned clothes he was wearing, like he was the spirit of somebody who died a long time ago…I kind of _hope_ that's what he was…"

At this, Dean blinked. "Excuse me?"

Amy laughed and buried her face in her hands. "Oh my God, that sounded awful! I didn't mean that I hope there's some dead guy walking around killing people. I only meant, I hope he's a ghost because that would mean there's an afterlife. Like real _proof_ of an afterlife, you know? And I just…want to believe in that. I _need_ to."

Dean frowned. "Why?"

Amy shifted on the couch. Her eyes wouldn't quite meet his anymore. "I'm…sick," she said finally, then gave a little, humorless laugh. "Actually, 'dying' would be the more accurate term."

As soon as the words were out, it hit Dean like a sucker-punch to the gut and he suddenly knew exactly, beyond a shadow of a doubt, who she reminded him of:

_Layla._

Amy's blue eyes finally locked with his greens, and Dean had to swallow back a lump.

"What's wrong?" he asked softly.

"My kidney – it's sort of…crapping out on me." She gave a little shrug like, _Kidneys will do that to you._

Dean's frown had returned. "Uh, not that I'm an expert or anything, but don't most people have two of those?"

"Oh, yeah – I was born with two, just like everybody, but I donated one of mine about eight years ago."

Dean blinked. "Was this some random Good Samaritan act, or did you know somebody who needed—"

"My little sister," said Amy quietly. "She'd been sick pretty much her whole life, on and off. The doctors always said a transplant could really help her, but none of our relatives were matches. So, as soon as I turned eighteen, I got tested, and I was a match, so we did the operation."

"And did it help her, like they thought?" Dean asked.

Amy smiled genuinely at this, and the rings under her eyes were lost in happy crinkles. "Yeah. Yeah, she's so much better now. She has been for a long time. This is her, see?" Amy picked up a photo of the brown-haired girl with braces and handed it across the table to Dean. "That's Lucy. She looks great, doesn't she?"

Dean gazed into the frame now held in his hand. "Yeah, she does," he said quietly.

"She started feeling better almost right away, after the transplant," Amy went on. "Actually, we both felt good for a long time. It was a couple of years afterward that I started having problems…Eventually ended up on dialysis, which helped for a while-" Her eyes flicked briefly onto the white machine Dean had spotted earlier "—Only now it's not going so well anymore…"

Dean traced a thumb along the bottom edge of the photo, his eyes lost somewhere in the distance. "Must be hard," he murmured. "For both of you."

Amy nodded. "Yeah. Lucy's been a wreck since the day I told her. She actually feels _guilty_ – wishes she'd never agreed to accept my kidney in the first place. Now she wants to like, give it back." Amy laughed a little at this, her nose wrinkling at the silliness of little sisters.

Dean smiled, but it was a sad one. After a minute, Amy looked away. She started fiddling with one of her golden locks, twisting it around her index finger.

Dean shifted in his seat. "Yeah, this is probably the last thing you want to talk about, isn't it?"

"Oh, no, it's all right – I'm the one who brought it up. And besides, it's supposed to be good for me. At least, that's what Lucy says. She's always been a 'caring and sharing' kind of girl. Anyone she loves tries to stuff their feelings in a bottle, she's right there tugging on the cork…"

Dean's mouth twisted with wry fondness. "I know the type…It's annoying as hell, isn't it?"

Amy chuckled. "Tell me about it! Some days, when she starts in with all that emo crap, I just want to tell her where she can shove it. But as much as it bugs me, as old as it gets, if it weren't for her always picking at me and hounding me, I wouldn't be coping half as well as I am. I mean, when this first started, I was in the most complete denial anyone could possibly be in. I was all, 'Me? Scared? No way! I'm fine, I'm great, everything's dandy. Now let's all have fun and go to Disney World!'"

She ducked her head a little in embarrassment. "Not very mature, I know, but it was the only way I could deal. I thought that if I admitted anything real, then I would crumble, then Lucy would fall apart and everything would just come crashing down. But she wouldn't let it go – she kept chipping at me, pushing and yelling and begging for me to give in to what I was feeling, until one day, I finally did. It's like, I woke up, and I realized something: Dying _is_ scary. It is Blair Witch, pee-your-pants scary…And maybe that's okay."

Dean stared at her in disbelief. "So you're just…_okay_ with dying? It doesn't ever get to you, or freak you out?"

Amy snorted. "Of course it does! I freak out on a regular basis – at least three times per week, minimum." A small, enigmatic smile tugged at her lips. "But I figured out a little strategy, for when that happens."

"What is it?" Dean asked, in a voice just above a whisper. He was watching her now like he was four years old again, sitting on his dad's lap while John revealed the dark secrets of the universe.

"Well, when the world starts spinning too fast, and the walls start closing in, I look at my sister. She'll be doing some _total_ geek thing, like making up an _X-Files_ trivia game or trying to program her graphing calculator to make a smiley face…The stupidest little stuff, she does. But I just look at her, and everything stops. And suddenly, I can breathe again."

Amy smiled and gave a little shrug. "Don't ask me why, but it works."

Dean swallowed and carefully handed the photograph back to her.

XxXxX

After wrapping things up with Amy and making a brief stop at Tim Hortons – because he was seriously jonesing for something hot, black and caffeinated – Dean eased the Impala into the lot behind the burger joint. The place was called, to his delight, "The Sizzle Shack," and it wasn't far outside of campus, so Sam shouldn't have had any problem getting there.

And sure enough, as Dean strolled through the sun-bright glass door, he instantly spotted Sam's lamentable mop of hair. Even sitting down, hunched over his laptop, Sam was still easily a head taller than the other diners. As Dean approached, he saw that the journal was also out on the table, spread open to a section about spirits with atypical powers and characteristics.

Sam, however, wasn't looking at it. He was still absorbed in his computer screen, scrolling through what appeared to be a list of names, and so intent on his task that he didn't even hear his older brother coming.

Dean announced himself with a "hey" as he plopped into the booth seat across from Sam's.

"Hey," Sam greeted back, abandoning the research to glance up at his brother. "Took you long enough."

Dean shrugged lightly. "Just being thorough."

"The girl know anything?"

"Nothing new. Just more confirmation it's our wolf boy. What about your guy?"

Sam sighed. "Same deal. He saw it, but didn't see anything that's gonna help us find the body…"

Dean leaned forward across the table, a devilish smirk suddenly curling his lips. "So, was Edwin everything you hoped he'd be?"

Sam's nose wrinkled in distaste. "Sorry, Dean, but greasy mustaches and uni-brows aren't really my thing."

Dean's smirk widened. "Whatever you say, dude."

Sam shook his head and looked back at his computer.

Dean's eyes strayed to the paper menu lying directly in front of him.

"I already ordered," Sam informed him, without looking up.

"Yeah? What'd you get me?"

"Large basket of curly fries, and a triple-decker bacon sizzle burger," Sam rattled off. "_With_ extra onions," he added, before Dean had a chance to ask.

Dean grinned appreciatively. "Awesome."

"I also got you these, for after." Sam slid a tin of Altoids across the table, hockey-puck-style. "I just hope they're 'curiously strong' enough."

Dean caught the box deftly and proceeded to rattle it a few times – just to annoy Sammy – before slipping it into his pocket.

Sam was still reading the names on his laptop.

"What're you looking for on there, anyway?"

"Just checking on some deaths and missing persons from seventy years ago…"

Dean heaved a sigh and rubbed at his temples. He could feel a headache coming on. "Sam, we already checked those. _Twice_. Our dog-faced boy isn't on there."

"I know, but this time I'm widening the search to neighboring states. Man, if we can just find a name, then we can summon the guy-"

"—And blast him with rock salt or trap him until we can find his bones," Dean finished wearily.

"Exactly. It's worth a shot, at least."

"Yeah, I guess…"

The dull throb inside Dean's skull sharpened and poked insistently at the backs of his eyeballs. He rubbed his temples again.

"You all right?" Sam asked, not taking his eyes off the screen.

Dean stopped rubbing. "Yup."

"Food should be here in a couple minutes," Sam told him.

"Mmm-hmm…"

Dean's gaze began to roam aimlessly over the Sizzle Shack's interior décor, which consisted mainly of various lassos, spurs, rusty horseshoes, and old John Wayne photographs. His eyes eventually came to rest on the journal.

Just the sight of that cramped, uneven writing made his heart clench a little. Dean swallowed roughly. God, he was a mess today. He really was. First a calendar, now a book?

_Not _just_ a book_, Dean conceded, trying to cut himself some slack. After all, how many times had that little book saved their lives? How many times had _Dad_ saved their lives – from beyond the grave, no less – simply through that tiny extension of himself?

Sam's voice from the past drifted its way through Dean's still-aching head:

"_How many people do you think Dad saved, total? Evan Hudson is alive because of what _Dad_ taught us – _that's_ his legacy…"_

And then another memory, more recent. The words, his own:

"_It's like, what am I leaving behind, besides a car?"_

Suddenly, the strong smell of warm fries and hot grease that filled the diner was _too_ strong – and no longer appetizing at all. Dean swallowed again.

White stars began to fall in a gentle rain before his eyes. Dean squeezed his eyes shut.

No.

This was not happening.

Not again.

No. _Way._

He pried his eyes back open. The falling stars turned black…and started raining down even harder. Dean took a slow, deep breath in through his nose and let it out his mouth.

Somehow, this did nothing to help his lungs, which were puke-sick from the smell and the warmth of the air, and insisting that he breathe faster and harder, because seriously, that last breath had contained not even _one_ molecule of real oxygen.

Dean had to violently quash his body's urge to start panting. This was ridiculous. It was all in his head. He'd talked himself into this, and now, goddammit, he was going to talk himself back out of it again.

Mind over matter, that was the ticket. Logic. Reason. Control.

He was _not_ freaking out for the second time in one day.

Why?

Because he wasn't a _girl_.

It was just the coffee, that was all—just the caffeine making his pulse race like that. It made perfect sense. Stupid Tim Hortons. And the dizziness, that was only from not eating jack all day. They never should've skipped breakfast – that was the whole problem. And the room, the room was doing its "shrinking box" impression because…

Because…

Crap.

Mom and Dad might as well have named him "Deanna." Would've been a lot more appropriate.

Dean gave his head a little shake – one last ditch effort to clear it. The image of the diner swam sickeningly before him. Hot shame burned across his cheeks, stinging against the cold drops of sweat already blossoming there.

Why?

Why _now_?

Why in front of twenty strangers, and, of course, Sam, too?

Sam…

Something nudged at the back of Dean's foggy brain. With effort, he stopped his eyes' frantic scanning for an exit or a bathroom – he'd never make it in time, anyway – and focused them instead on the figure seated across the table.

It was like looking backwards through a pair of binoculars – everything was small and miles away through the darkness of his tunnel vision. But he could still see Sam.

He could still see him…

Dean's far-away little brother continued to scan through names on the computer. The screen's glow lit his face, accentuating the familiar brow-line and up-turned nose, the intense focus of those shrewd eyes as they darted back and forth, reading and processing.

Dean didn't need to be close up—or have clear vision—to see Sam this way. A reading Sam was a familiar Sam, and Dean could close his eyes and still see every detail perfectly. In fact, he could picture the look at every age, trace its evolution back through all the years:

Little four-year-old Sammy, chewing on his pudgy bottom lip as he struggled to learn the ABCs Dean had painstakingly drawn out for him on the bottom of a Twinkies box.

Chubby twelve-year-old Sammy, sniffling his way through _Where the Red Fern Grows_, and then asking Dean afterwards, all hopeful and earnest, "Do you think _we_ could ever get a dog?"

Broody, moody teenaged Sam, frowning over literature and social studies homework, rejecting any and all of Dean's efforts to get him to "Lighten up, man – it's just _school_…"

Sam at Stanford, viewed at midnight, through the window, through binoculars, his face lit by lamplight and looking much too serious as he pored over every letter of the law…

Dean sighed – then gave a start.

He'd just taken two perfectly slow, perfectly normal breaths of air without even realizing it. And, now that he was thinking about it, didn't Sam seem a lot closer and more in focus than he had a few moments ago?

Dean blinked experimentally. The black edges of the tunnel were still there, but fading fast. Dean's hands, safely concealed under the table, shook with desperate relief and the sudden chill of cooling sweat, which was a welcome warrior against the nausea.

A shudder ran the length of his body, making him clench his teeth to keep them from clacking together, but Dean didn't mind. He was just so glad, _so glad_ it was over…

In the booth behind them, someone clanked a fork a little too hard against a plate, and Sam glanced up.

He caught sight of Dean's face and frowned. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah," Dean answered gruffly, and even managed a smile as the last of the darkness melted away. "Yeah, I'm good."


End file.
